


come, congregation, let's sing it like we mean it

by TheTartWitch



Series: the lionheart star [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BAMF Ocs, Black Madness is a real thing, F/M, Gen, Pureblood Politics, The Noble and Most Ancient House of Black, a match made in Black madness, a pair of twins with a Black mother and Longbottom father, basically if neville was raised by someone who didn't think he was a wimp, because everyone knows the rules for their crazy, blood politics, family magicks, reasons for pureblood behavior, someone else raises neville, they happen to be my ocs, unspoken societal rules, what even are muggleborns, why was literally no one surprised a Black followed Voldie??
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-06
Updated: 2019-05-07
Packaged: 2020-02-27 11:07:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18737788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTartWitch/pseuds/TheTartWitch
Summary: I first learned of the circumstances of my dear cousin’s condition when the letter arrived.





	1. neville and malfoys

**Author's Note:**

> Basically I was reviewing the Black family tree I've pieced together from the interwebs and there's a Black/Longbottom matchup?? and i was curious  
> and then there were characters, and personalities, and then i needed neville raised by bamfs and more confident, so here we are.  
> (then i needed them to participate in power plays among purebloods and fucking dominate because Blacks are canonically insane and Longbottoms are canonically warlords and badasses before they devolved into vulture/turkey hats so yeah.

I first learned of the circumstances of my dear cousin’s condition when the letter arrived. My brother and I are very private people; since my mother’s death and the rejection of my father’s family, we have secluded ourselves in study of obscure magical arts. My brother’s interests lie in the direction of the study of magical creatures and their use in potions. So far he has discovered six outdated potions still used only because it would be inconvenient and expensive to change their ingredients now. My studies run closer to advanced horticulture, which is why I was in the garden to receive the letter.

It was from a Longbottom owl. Crucius, sprawled in a lounge chair on the back garden’s patio, pulled his nose from his book with great effort. 

“What is it, Vivi?” He was really only interested if it was his scientific journal.

“It’s a letter, brother.”

I opened the letter, skimming it to the signature at the end, and stared at it in surprise.

“It’s Augusta,” I informed Crucius across the table. His eyebrow raised, but beyond that he hardly betrayed his dismay and surprise. “She’s unwilling to raise her grandson...oh, brave Frank and Alice, defending their home like that. The boy’s an infant, Crucius. Her own grandson.”

Crucius grunted. “Well, we always knew the Longbottoms were cracked.” I peered at him reprovingly over the top of the letter. His owl familiar, Yersinia, nudged her beak against my own Pestis’, and the matter was dropped for the moment. I turned back to the thin strained handwriting, lips pursed.  _ He wasn’t entirely wrong, anyway, _ I told myself.  _ Frank and Alice seemed to be the only exceptions, however. _ The day they’d shown up on our doorway, young and glittery with capable love and excited to meet us, was a day to remember. 

“It says the boy’s a few years old already and after Alfie’s latest mess-up she doesn’t feel right about leaving him behind for her council meetings.” Crucius’ eyes widen and he looked up, but it was too late. “Certainly we’ll watch the child.”

“Vivi,” he says desperately, “You do realize neither of us is capable of watching a child reliably? We’d probably forget him for a flower or lose him in a greenhouse!”

I glance at the letter again. “She makes him sound dreadfully dull and boring, Crucius. That practically guarantees our interest. Besides, leaving a child with Alfie is asking for them to get hurt. You know how he is.” 

Crucius ducked back into his book. “Very well, Vivi. I leave you in charge of the boy’s placement, then.”

And that was the end of it.

\--

Except it truly wasn’t. Augusta showed up days later, herding a small boy ahead of her with a cane like an unruly housecat. The boy was criminally shy, glancing up only to introduce himself and shake my hand, and otherwise sat still and quiet in the chair indicated to be his. I believe he assumed I was to be the next in a long string of short-tempered nannies.

Augusta was looking very much like the old crone she’d always abhorred. Her dress was an awful dusty red and her hat held a stuffed turkey. She looked ghastly, and then she attempted to smile and only made it all worse. 

“Aunt Vivienne,” she greeted, reaching for a handshake that I disdainfully pushed aside. 

“Augusta.” I returned. We sat in the drawing room with the boy. Crucius stuck his head through the door, shaggy black Black hair hanging from his scalp in a million thin little braids. His grey eyes toured the room, stopping on the three of us each in turn, before settling on myself. 

“Vivi,” he said distractedly, attempting to spoon something into his mouth with the hand still on the other side of the door jamb. He missed his mouth; something hit the ground with a splat, and he looked down at it mournfully. I ignored it and waited expectantly for his question. “Have you seen my notes on the effect of the Brohamnon Rituals on tulips? I could have sworn the journal was in the fourth library’s desk but honestly I also thought one of my hands was missing due to the fumes leaking off the arugula.” The boy’s eyes glittered as he glanced up.

“You have four libraries?” He gasped, before quieting suddenly, as though one of us would smack him for asking questions. Crucius looked blindsided, as though he couldn’t fathom having less than six and didn’t imagine why having four would be at all unusual. Perhaps he couldn’t. Augusta sniffed haughtily but before she could say anything   Crucius gestured for the boy to join him in the hall. There was a muffled conversation before Crucius’ head came back through the door. 

“I’m taking him, Vivi. We’ll be in the greenhouses.”

“Very well,” I smiled at him. “Your journal is in the third drawing room’s desk, in the drawer on the right side. You left it there after tea yesterday, during the owl fight.”

“Ah, yes!” He exclaimed, smacking himself in the forehead, and then disappeared back through the door, excitedly chattering at the child with him. I turned back to Augusta. She looked disgusted, which was not an unusual expression for her. I resolved to wait it out. 

Finally she exploded with it. “What has he done with his hair? Those braids! Making a mess everywhere! Speaking to you so plainly! Why, he behaves as though he is -”

“My brother?” I raise my eyebrow. “I am aware the Longbottoms disdain us, madam, but I was unaware that you’d put on airs before your own host.” Her mouth gaped like a drowning fish; her eyes flashed from myself to the door to the table between us. “I do believe we are done here, although considering how the boy flinches from you I do believe we will be seeing each other in court, hm? I shall have to study up on it. How exciting.” And she is gently guided from the house, ugly cane clenched in equally ugly fists.

\--

The boy - “Neville,” a ghastly name, though I suppose if Frank and Alice chose it there must be some merits to it - has a frightfully small amount of belongings with him. It’s likely Augusta thought we might not want him for long, or even that we might turn them away at the door, but it also implies things about his care that worry Crucius and I. We take him out to Diagon Alley, unwilling to leave the purchase of personal artefacts to the mail order catalogue. Crucius adorns sunglasses and pulls his braids up into one long tail. Crucius always enjoyed Muggle spy films, partly for how they made our Longbottom relatives froth at the mouth and partly because he always felt they captured a sort of magic we didn’t always recognize: the magic of the plot, of the disguise, of the success of a good operation. He loaned Neville on of his smaller coats, one of the ones with the tall collars so he could hide his face if he became shy or if “an enemy operative spots you, Neville, because if they know what you look like they can trace you,” both of which were received with tremendous enthusiasm. 

Neville was enormously clever for his age. He deduced our names quickly, where we slept, how we preferred he behave (exuberantly, as we were liable to perhaps forget he was there in favor of our experiments if he didn’t), and even a few minor spells by watching Crucius and I’s absent-minded wand movements. He apologized far too often for rather normal things, such as shattering cups with accidental magic when excited and talking to flowers until they spoke back. Thus Crucius’ instructions were well understood, and Neville received the miniature sunglasses with equal grace. 

Diagon Alley was a fool’s dream. About the only good thing about it, as we told Neville, was that Gringotts Bank occupied a business on it. Crucius adored goblins, felt they were just the right size and temperament for handling his money, and if they’d allowed it he would have studied their behavior for years. Luckily they handled his interest with grace or we’d have been evicted ages ago. 

“Good evening, sir goblin!” Crucius greeted the gate warden, having bounced excitedly to the front of the line. The man behind him made a move to object to the cut in line but paused dramatically at the sight of Crucius’ braids swaying in their high tail. His eyes jerked to mine, and Neville’s hand in my own, and widened. He hastily gestured us ahead of him. 

“Lord Longbottom-Black,” the goblin droned, raising an eyebrow and allowing Crucius’ studying of his intricate fingernails. “How might I assist you this morning?”

“We have a young ward, Bloodaxe.” I announced, holding Neville’s hand up into the air, and the goblin leaned forward to peer over the edge of his counter. He was treated to the sight of Neville holding his coat’s collar over his face. “Neville Longbottom, formerly the ward of Augusta Longbottom, who has been found to be an unfit guardian by my brother and myself. He is very shy, or perhaps has sighted an enemy agent?” I directed this question to Neville, who pointed one-handedly to the side of us. A young blonde boy and his parents, relatives unfortunately, was sneering at us from the other counter. The boy’s mother’s sneer was faltering, however, as she glanced between Crucius and myself. The Blacks were less familiar with us after Mother’s death but they still would have heard some stories of their distant living relatives, and this woman had the bearing and grace of a Black. Her husband, blonde almost to invisibility, was unfortunately immediately identifiable as a Malfoy. 

“Enemy agents,” Neville whispered, burying his head so far into his coat he seemed more like a pillar of fabric than a boy. Crucius turned to stare at the Malfoys too, enacting his ability to resemble somewhat the lord of some minor barony who was disappointed in you. The blonde boy, instinctively it looked like, stood up straighter. I approved; he had a good eye for authority and power, even if Crucius rarely played his part in the dull pureblood politics. 

“You’re absolutely right, Neville,” Crucius smirked, even as he stared the Malfoy right in the eyes across the bank. “Never trust a Malfoy not to try to get you to put the dagger in your own back just to save them the effort.”

I rolled my eyes and turned back to Bloodaxe. “Begging your pardon for all the dramatics, master goblin. We only came for one of your temporary connected pouches while we buy our ward some necessities.” 

“Certainly,” Bloodaxe grinned, motioning for an attendant. He relayed our request before turning back to me. “One civilized person to another, feel free to antagonize the Malfoys. They’re always massive handfuls and the clerks are tired of them.”

“And right you are!” Crucius roared, snapping up Neville’s other hand. 

\--

The Malfoys met up with us outside Gringotts. The woman ( _ definitely  _ a Black, perhaps one of Cygnus’ daughters? He’d had three, I knew that much) dropped into a low curtsey at the sight of us face-to-face. 

“Aunt Vivienne,” she gasped, tugging her son down with her, much to his innocent confusion.

“Mother,” he said curiously, “I thought we weren’t to bow unless they were important Black relatives or Grandfather’s work friends?”

To the best of my knowledge, no Black or Malfoy man had had “work friends” for generations. The woman still paled. 

Crucius snapped his fingers, an expression of dawning recognition on his face. “You’re the youngest of those three, aren’t you? Cygnus and his Rosier wife’s little girls. I remember that time your sister decided that by Howlett’s wand she was going to use the Floo even if it cost her a leg!”

“And it did,” I agreed, remembering. Cygnus had been so proud of his girls, all pale and pretty as porcelain dolls. The eldest had been a true Roman Spitfire though, tangled black curls dreading down her back. The middle girl had seemed quieter until she thought you were out of earshot, and then she was blistering with hidden rage and abuse. The youngest, though. The youngest had had the most bizarre coloring, brown growing out into blonde. Named for a flower, too, very nice… “Narcissa, wasn’t it?” I ask her. She nods.

“And with a Malfoy husband, to boot,” Crucius rubs his chin contemplatively with the hand not looped through Neville’s. Narcissa flushes while her man starts, eyes wide. “Very peculiar, but then your branch has always had a strange strain of the Black Madness. Don’t worry, little boy,” he tells Narcissa’s son peacefully, “It’ll breed out in a generation or two, but the Black name always carried that ancient curse your dam’s a Named Black. Too late for you, I’m afraid.”

Narcissa starts herself. “A curse?” Crucius nods thoughtfully, absentmindedly. He’s lost himself in a daze of research notes, having been reminded of his favorite, longest-running experiment, so I take over.

“Yes; for most it appears to take form as an obsession, so we theorize it began as a malformed curse aimed at a cheating or wandering husband, perhaps even an absent father in an attempt to get them to care or stay. Innocent enough, supposedly, though I can’t help but be grateful we’ve lost that particular spell to the archives.” I looked away from Narcissa’s blank expression and put out my hand to her husband. “And you are?”

He grasped my hand firmly, perhaps taking a clue from his wife’s pale face and deciding to show some respect. “Lucius Malfoy, at your service.”

“Vivienne Longbottom-Black, and this is my brother, Crucius Longbottom-Black, and our young ward, Neville Longbottom.” He tried valiantly but couldn’t hide the disdainful curl of his lip at our names. Neville, unable to hide his face in his collar with both hands secured, simply shrunk down into Crucius’ small coat as though he were melting. I left this one to Crucius; he always seemed the more vicious of the two of us, with his wild Black eyes and tendency to dress in long Muggle coats. Between the two of us was the more dangerous place to be, however, if you were against us. Mother had always said that being twins made us twice as dangerous with our ability to coordinate our efforts nigh on telepathically. 

“Ah,” Crucius says, letting go of Neville’s hand to step forward, into Malfoy’s space. The man recoils at the sight of my brother’s wide eyes and maniacal smile. It’s his research smile, indicating he’s found something new and interesting and won’t let it from between his teeth until he’s broken it’s neck so it can’t fly away. “A Malfoy, with disdain for Longbottoms? You’re not wrong there, Longbottoms are generally little wrecks of nature.” He waved a hand, dismissing that train of thought as unimportant. “But this one is with us now. Our mother was Callidora Black, arguably the most vicious of Arcturus Black’s three daughters, and she centered her Madness on a Longbottom. So,” he steps forwards again, until Malfoy is letting himself be visually pushed back in front of the entire populace of Diagon Alley. Narcissa’s hand covers her mouth; her son has wormed his way behind her. Neville is watching Crucius frighten the living daylights out of a man who insulted him with a sort of astonished glee. “So,” Crucius says again, poking Malfoy’s chest. “Watch yourself,  _ Malfoy. _ Your father may have served a Dark Lord, but our ancestors didn’t need any piss-poor excuse for an overlord to prove ourselves.” He levels a glare at Narcissa. “Educate your husband, if he doesn’t even know that much. Besides, before he snoots about how important and British his family is, will you remind him that his line is French?  _ Malfoi,” _ he sounds it out in his mouth before translating it. “ _ Bad faith,  _ indeed.”

\--


	2. family politics and leanings; the Black Madness as it passes into other bloodlines

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Blacks might be obsession, but as I’ve said, the Weasleys are family and the Prewetts were battle, or defense might be a better way to put it. A pairing of the two usually resulted in the Prewett being in charge of outside matters, leading any charges into war, defending the family from the outer edge like an attack dog, whereas the Weasley was in charge in the home, keeping everyone knit together. A wise witch knew to leave a pair like that alone, because attack one and you’d guaranteed they’d all hex you to bits and dance eagerly on your ashes.

My mother was one of three sisters. Their father, Arcturus Black (one of the many Arcturus Blacks on our family tree, the name got recycled terribly often) married Lysandra Yaxley, an absentee woman who didn’t understand his obsessive temperament and once confessed in a journal entry she was worried about their daughters being mistreated. This was far from the case. Perhaps her sisters felt threatened by his attention and attempted to escape into Lighter families, but my mother thrived. Their lessons soon shifted from politics and school subjects to knife throwing and human anatomy. My mother was a devoted student and a gifted learner, and while her sisters went for a mediocre Weasley and a state-driven Crouch, my mother set her sights on something she (and her family) believed more noble: a Longbottom. Once warlords, they now dominated the courts and Wizengamot with an iron claw. When she died, our father’s interest in Black family dynamics died with her.

I was left only with Crucius, my younger twin brother, against the might of the Longbottom family, the might my mother once coveted. One of the last things she told us before she died of dragon pox was that if our hearts chose someone or something to hold onto, be it a person, a subject at school, or a goal, then that was what we were destined to pursue. That was every Black’s destiny: to pursue their obsession until they got what they wanted or they died trying.

\--

Perhaps because of our lonely upbringing, Crucius and I latched onto each other. Our Weasley cousins refused to speak with us unless we dropped the Black from our names and our Crouch cousins felt we were too close to anarchy, letting the Black in us sway our judgments, so we were alone with the Longbottoms, who felt our father had betrayed them and sullied their name with our mother’s Black blood.

It’s odd, then, that the Weasleys would contact us now. My nephew’s Prewett wife decided Neville’s move into our home was reason enough, I suppose, to re-open the channels of communication between us that her husband’s family had once cut.

She shows up on our doorstep on a Tuesday in the summer, brilliant red hair snapped up into a small tail. Brilli opens the door and leads her and the rest of her family to the back gardens, where Neville is examining the flowerbeds and Crucius is explaining the presence of several bug species. I am lounging in a chair, reading the month’s latest scientific journal. There’s an article on the long-term effects of tourmaline powder on jade lily roots that I’ve been watching out for. She walks right up to me, ignoring her husband’s nervous mutterings and hand-wringing and curtseys.

“Lady Longbottom-Black,” she greets. My eyes roll to glance at her over the top of the journal.

“Lady Weasley,” I return, “and brood. Is that my nephew there, behind you? Looks to be rather unfortunate, doesn’t he, Crucius?” My brother glances up, eyes flicking to the man and his children, and his lip curls. “Not even enough Black in you to come see us sooner, hm? Disgraceful.” Perhaps we’re feeling a tad resentful of the long silence from our aunt’s children.

Neville glances between us, attempting to gain clues on the situation even as he edges behind Crucius’ wide back. The matriarch straightens with a slight huff.

“Arthur wasn’t aware the Weasley side had cut off contact with you rather rudely. He assumed he was honoring your desire for silence between us.” My eyes narrowed. Knowing Aunt Cedrella’s temperament towards all things Black, that was entirely possible. Crucius groaned and stood, apparently reaching the same conclusion as myself. He dusted his hands off on his trousers (Brilli, in the background, scoffed and cleaned them with a snap of her fingers) and approaches them, examining our cousin and their children.

“Weasley-Prewett, hm?” He muses, tilting one of the boys’ chins to peer into their eyes. Our cousin moves as though to stop him but is restrained by the woman who is clearly in charge in this family. Crucius hums a little, satisfied by what he sees. “Plenty of Black ambition in this one, sister, and that one’s got dragonfire in his eyes.” He nods and steps away, motioning Neville closer. My eyes narrow in interest; if the children truly have enough Black in them to attract Crucius’ attention they could be worth watching.

“That’s Percy and Charlie, and I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about but they’re good children!” Our cousin finally explodes. His wife gasps, but Crucius and I peer at him with curiosity.

“Do you mean to say you believe Black blood to be inherently bad?” I ask him, tucking away the journal. Neville slips quickly behind Crucius again, perhaps having realized from Diagon Alley that Crucius and I stand more firmly behind our Black side than our Longbottom blood. When I stand, our cousin flinches back almost instinctively. “Aunt Cedrella had no love for her former family, then? I suppose she _was_ burnt off the family tree as a blood traitor...no, dear cousin, I dare say Cedrella would have seen _us_ burnt off the tree as well, children of a Longbottom that we are!”

I step up to the boy Crucius first admired. He is young, redheaded as they all are, and suspicious of me. His eyes glitter with Black madness, contained only (and badly) by his Prewett mother’s stern handling. Give it a few more years and he will stifle himself to follow his family’s lead. I pat his cheek happily. “I will eat my hat if you’re not a Slytherin, child. Crucius was right; I can smell the Black Madness on you a mile away.”

“Madness?” He squeaks. His brother loops an arm around his shoulders and glares at me with sparks in his eyes.

“Percy’s not mad!” He growls. His teeth snap together and I laugh.

“Whatever harmless thing has snared your father certainly passed you both over, didn’t it?” I exclaim excitedly. True Black children are rare nowadays, though if Sirius and Regulus ever have children I will be most excited to meet them as well; passing on the name makes the curse much stronger, though being the child of a named Black is nearly as bad. After that it takes only a few generations for the curse to breed out and diffuse amongst the other dirty blood it encounters. The children watch me with uncertainty, but their mother knows of what I speak.

“You’re speaking of Arthur’s fascination with Muggles,” she says contemplatively. Crucius’ head whips around.

“Muggles?” He asks. “Perhaps you’re a fan of Muggle spy films, then?” Our cousin’s eyes light up, and they immerse themselves in their own conversation, effectively ignoring us. The matriarch doesn’t stop watching me.

“Of course it would be Muggles,” I sigh disgustedly. “No wonder he has no head for politics; he’s Muggle-obsessed.” I turn to watch the two boys we’d seen before. “You’ll get trouble out of these two, mark my words.” I tell her thoughtfully. “And likely with your girl, too, though she’s too young to tell for sure. The Black curse rarely settles for harmless obsessions. Your husband’s rather an odd case. His mother, Cedrella, had a fondness for poisons, and our mother’s was knives and our father, a little. I cannot imagine your children will be any different, if perhaps a little calmer about it.”

“A curse?” The woman says, peering at her children thoughtfully. She seems to focus on a pair of identical boys fluttering near the back with the little girl. “Could you perhaps focus it into something productive?”

“I doubt it,” I say airily. “The curse settles when it will, and attempting to direct it is asking for it to choose something dangerous, more dangerous than anything you’re imagining now. Have they hurt anyone truly, will maliciousness or happiness at the idea?” She snaps her head to me, eyes narrowing. Her lips purse unhappily, but part to say, “No, not really. There were some moments I thought...but no, they regretted afterwards.”

“Let me see them,” I wave them forward. They shuffle closer together, hands clasped. “Twins? I doubt you’ll have any true problems with these two; they’re far too likely to obsess over each other, and find a minor secondary thing to squeal over together. If one dies, there will definitely be a backlash but so long as they’re together they’ll be fine. It’s this one I’m truly worried about…” I pat Percy on the head. “He’s already found his obsession, but he’s too much Weasley, too family-oriented. He’s stifling himself, and it’ll only get worse.” She stares down at the boy, perplexed, but he looks down, clenching his fists in his tiny shorts.

“Percy?”

“He’s got power on the mind, don’t you, boy? Wants to be in charge, wants to enforce the rules, wants order out of chaos, don’t you, boy?” Percy’s face clenches and pales. His mother doesn’t move. “He’s Black enough to want it and know he could make it happen, Prewett enough to fight for what he wants, but he’s Weasley enough to love his family too much to actually do it. He’s Black enough that the wanting will shake him up inside like a dog with a kitten in its mouth, though. Poor child.”

The woman stares at me, mouth falling open. “You’re saying Percy could be a Dark Lord?”

The phrasing offends me. “Or a Light Lord, you know. Even the Minister for Magic, though he’d probably reform everything to be so much more efficient. It’s doubtful he’ll ever be good at handling the public, too much Prewett, but there are Hufflepuffs for that, aren’t there? Or I suppose you could make a Bones the face of the Ministry. Always an option.” I pat the boy’s head again and he peeks up at me. “Anything would be fine, wouldn’t it, so long as the rules were just and enforced, and people lived in a society with order, dear Percy?”

He nods, and his mother’s eyes fill with tears and understanding.

“You’re lucky,” I continue, “that your husband’s obsession hasn’t led him to chain Muggles up in your basement for study. Likely that’s the Weasley in him, and your influence. The Black wants it but the Weasley says listen to the family, and the family says no, doesn’t it? Wouldn’t be right, then.” Molly hisses under her breath, watching her husband, and I know she’s seeing it then, the family magic constantly at war within him. It’s always closer to the surface in the Black family and those coming directly off the tree. “And that one.” I point to the dragonfire boy. Molly stares at her children, thinking this new development through. “He’s going to be a spitfire. You’ve got fire in your eyes, boy. Think if you could shed your skin you’d be a fire-snake through and through, and since you can’t you’ll always want the next best thing: wading through dragonfire, climbing scaled backs, hissing that dragon-tongue, isn’t it? He’s going to fly off to Romania on you, right off to that dragon sanctuary, and that will be that. You’ll be lucky to get any grandchildren from that one. Too obsessed with another species to mate anything else, but Blacks don’t generally tend towards bestiality.”

“Charlie…” Molly sighs, but doesn’t argue it. She knows I speaks the truth.

\--

The other lines like to forget it, thinking it old history, but the Blacks know the old ways, the old blood. Every line has a curse attached, a proclination, a tendency, or something similar. Our lies closer to the surface than the others, but knowing their heritage gives insight into their behavior, so of course Crucius and I know it all.

The Blacks might be obsession, but as I’ve said, the Weasleys are family and the Prewetts were battle, or defense might be a better way to put it. A pairing of the two usually resulted in the Prewett being in charge of outside matters, leading any charges into war, defending the family from the outer edge like an attack dog, whereas the Weasley was in charge in the home, keeping everyone knit together. A wise witch knew to leave a pair like that alone, because attack one and you’d guaranteed they’d all hex you to bits and dance eagerly on your ashes.

A brief overview of the current British witch genealogies:

  * Black (obsession) + Weasley (family) = either terrifying or harmless, depending on the Black’s obsession. Weasleys aren’t inclined to care about anyone outside the family unless their partner takes special interest. Children of such a pairing will likely have trace amounts of the Black curse, usually overshadowed or determined by their Weasley familial loyalty. Example: Cedrella Black/Septimus Weasley
  * Black (obsession) + Malfoy (loyalty) = generally a very self-absorbed pairing. The Black’s obsession is likely one focussed on the family or the state, whereas the Malfoy will have a primary loyalty, often the state, their family, as well as any additional figures that might substitute their loyalty to the state, such as a Dark or Light Lord or even a competent Minister. Children of such a pairing will have a strong Black curse and will look to their parents to determine their young loyalty, so a strong positive foundation is essential so they can develop trust in the target of their loyalty. Example: Narcissa Black/Lucius Malfoy
  * Black (obsession) + Crouch (order) = very dangerous pairing but luckily very rare, often leading to mental instability only a generation or two down the road. A Crouch’s need for order paired with a Black’s obsession generally leads them to challenge the current leadership. Giving a Crouch’s reins to a Black leads to chaos as the Crouch attempts to create order and the Black’s obsession either gets in the way or strongly centers on the Crouch. As one cannot create perfection in order, they are doomed to fail. Any children of such a pairing will often have a strong obsession centering on being in authority, dismantling authority, or finding strong authority among dangerous individuals. Example: Charis Black/Caspar Crouch
  * Black (obsession) + Longbottom (justice) = Blacks are rarely compatible with Longbottoms. Longbottoms tend towards justice, true, but being in the position to decide what’s just (in courts, councils, battlefields, and even the Wizengamot) often leads them to develop mild to advanced arrogance, which, if unfounded or unearned, tends to drive off any interested Blacks. The difference comes if the Black develops an obsession for the Longbottom and the subject returns some affection, such as in my mother’s case. Any children of such a pairing will inevitably end up with the Black curse in roaring effect, though they are likely to be impartial judges in cases unrelated to them and might be more likely to have more harmless targets of their curse, such as plants, research, or cooking. Example: Callidora Black/Harfang Longbottom
  * Black (obsession) + Potter (skill) = Potters, an old respected family once feared for their eccentric yet useful talents, including but not limited to: parseltongue, acrobatic flight, dueling, spell invention, inspiring loyalty where there previously was none (and amongst witches who are not Malfoys), alcohol consumption, swordplay, and even assassination. Pairing one of these odd folk with a Black is an exercise in courting disaster, as Potters are often incredibly gifted in obscure or odd strains of magic and the Black will often be obsessed with them or their skill, making it incredibly likely that whatever that Potter should choose to do, a crazed Black will be there by their side to see it done. Any children of such a pairing are likely to be good, as so many Potters are, but with a strong edge of absurd focus in anything that interests them and a latent disregard for anything deemed unimportant, be this a simple project for class or even another’s feelings or wellbeing. They might perhaps be rather straightforward in getting the attention of the one they fancy, and they are likely to trample anyone in their way to a goal without a second thought, a byproduct of the Madness in a Potter-skilled child. Example: Dorea Black/Charlus Potter



In rare cases a child might inherit family magicks from grandparents if the traits are particularly strong in their parents. Example: Percy Weasley (inherits Prewett from mother, Weasley from father, but also Black from paternal grandmother).

More observations are to come once Neville gets Crucius and I out into the world more and I can study more bloodlines.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it skips around a bit but this one's gonna be real stream-of-consciousness, like my reggie fic, and i'm gonna try and follow a loose plot for nev but also get some pureblood politics in there.  
> also i want to explain why purebloods don't like muggleborns in my fic/headcanon: they're unpredictable. with the current families you can sort of predict how they/their offspring will turn out due to what's mixed into their family magic. you can plan alliances, keep your kids safe, all that good stuff, because you know your enemy and on some base level, you know how they'll behave. muggleborns, with muddy, indecipherable blood? they're illogical, unreasonable, and they don't understand all the little unspoken rules, and because they don't understand what they're missing they trample all over the carefully planned alliances and their children might end up with a huge concentration of their family's magic trait or nearly nothing, and it's awful. how are you supposed to plan around the one that's not linked to ANYTHING?
> 
> please leave comments for any pairing you might like to see (for familial magic explained such as Black/Malfoy, not for the general fic) with an example of the pairing (Narcissa/Lucius) or their offspring (Draco) and maybe what the trait should be?? so I have something to look into. Let me know what you think of my headcanons! I'll be leaving them in as sort of a journal entry at the end of chapters. :)


	3. muggleborns, the real scourge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> neville is an innocent bean

It takes a few years of Neville’s delightful young company to remember another child I was once charged with caring for. Traditionally Blacks don’t stay connected with external family members without extenuating circumstances, such as a Weasley mother wherein family would be much more important to them, but for things such as tutors or nannies a Black is preferred. We understand what the young are going through, that tentative first discovery of obsession, the inability to eat or sleep until a task is performed or an objective reached. One of my cousins had an obsession with cleanliness and couldn’t sleep until she’d washed her entire body three times a day at least and scrubbed her skin raw. Another couldn’t abide games of chance, needing predictability in all things, eventually dying in a duel with Aurors after murdering an entire family of muggleborns in their beds to prevent unpredictability. A tiny need to carry an item everywhere or smell every flower in the garden or inability to eat unless everything at the table is set  _ just so _ is nothing to us. 

For Walburga and Orion, obsessed with the other and with laziness respectively, that and our Longbottom blood made us the perfect nannies. Crucius spent more time with the elder of their children while I tutored the younger in all useful subjects: herbology, biology, and the ability to find anything you might need in any library you might encounter.

“Crucius,” I began one night over dinner. “Didn’t your godson go to prison a while ago? Whatever was that for?” He squinted at me. It had been an awfully long time since we’d tutored those little brats. 

“Sirius?” He finally recalled, scratching his chin. Neville dug into his potatoes with gusto, so I rewarded him with a dollop of sweet potato. “Wasn’t it...murder, or something? Betrayal? There was a Dark Lord, wasn’t there?” 

There had been, hadn’t there. 

“Mmm,” I said into my soup. “I thought his obsession was that Potter boy, though? Potters generally don’t go for Dark Lords and all that, you know that.”

“Heard the boy married a muggleborn, or some rot.”

“Not Sirius?”   
“No, Potter. Ridiculous.”

“You don’t like muggleborns? But you like muggles?” Neville asked suddenly, peering at Crucius with genuine confusion. We exchanged a glance.

“We don’t dislike muggles or muggleborns, dearest,” I told him, indicating he ought to put his napkin to good use. “It’s only that muggleborns are so... _ unpredictable _ to our society. They have no family to vouch for or denounce their behavior, they don’t understand their laws, as they rightly ought not to, born to another culture like that, poor things, and they often don’t appreciate our ways.”

Crucius chimed in when Neville still didn’t look convinced. “Think about it this way. Why did we adopt you, Neville?”

“Because you’re family and where I came from wasn’t good for me. It was the right thing to do.”

“That’s a Longbottom thing, my heart. Justice. And Blacks obsess. It’s why many say we have ‘the Black Madness.’ The Weasleys too, they care for their family an awful lot, correct? Weasleys value family above most things, such as wealth or prosperity. As long as Longbottoms have justice, they’re calm. As long as Blacks have their obsession, it focuses their attention so they don’t cause restless mayhem with their magic and perhaps hurt people. As long as Weasleys have their family they feel safe and included and all those good clan feelings, like how you feel with Vivi and I. Only it’s much bigger for them than it is for us, like how fairness is for you.”

Neville stares into his food.

“Muggleborns don’t understand that. They come from muggles, are born from muggles, and thus while their lines are free from the ancestral curses and ambient magicks of true magical lines, they are not bound to our ways. They don’t understand a Black’s obsession or a Longbottom’s need for fairness or a Weasley’s attachment to their family. They try to define us by muggle terms, fit us into muggle boxes, and it just doesn’t work, dearest, because we’re not muggles. So then they complain that we’re excluding them and that the society is geared against them and they try to change us. That’s why we don’t like them, my dear: they find they don’t like us and try to change us, and we like being our own people. We have pride in our ways, and we don’t look kindly on trespassers who try to destroy them.”

I wave my fork at him. “Crucius. The godson. A Black imprisoned without the object of his obsession? Surely that is unjust, especially as even a muggleborn-mated Potter would never turn to a Dark Lord, and thus Sirius never would have either.”

“You are correct as always, Vivi. I’ll look into it; there was a Crouch on the stand at the time, but he’s got enough Black in him to be dangerous to true justice, so perhaps something slipped through.”

\--

Zabini (attraction) + Black (obsession) = it’s said the Zabini clan, originally from Italy, carries the blood of veela in them. Veela are intensely attractive flaming bird-women, but their male children tend to appear more human while still inheriting the intense attraction. Whatever the case today, a Zabini’s reputation as a black widow is not to be ignored. While a hypothetical pairing of the Zabini and Black lines sounds terrifying (imagine someone obsessed with being the most attractive person in the room, even if they have to kill to get it), there may yet be an heir to such a pairing who seems to lack such violence in their basic workings. While still a sight to behold, this pairing would be intensely close and connected, perhaps even hiding their relationship to avoid prying eyes. Any child of such a pairing would be incredibly handsome from the pleasing mix of Black and Zabini genes, would likely carry the Zabini need to be a black widow(er), and would likely obsess over something relating to the appearance but not highly distracting, such as interesting physical traits, eye colors, physical builds, skin tones, or perhaps even species. Example: (tentatively, under investigation) Seraphina Zabini/Regulus Black

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> we never find out in canon who blaise's father is and this has always been my headcanon: regulus black is blaise's father. there's like no evidence either way, so who even knows, but i just really want it to be a thing. :)

**Author's Note:**

> yes like? no like? like want more?   
> tell me what you wanna see from this.   
> also sirius and reggie are sort of canon in this? reggie's not dead of course *nervous giggle* kill off reggie? never!!!


End file.
